Zuan smiled. "You've a good eye, my friend. Many would not see the quality of the threading. It is Rashuli indeed, and the Divine Broker smiles upon you here, for I was sure to sell it in Canagadi."

He sat back, eyeing Bulvan's howdah. "Now then, the price. Zamorzan masks, you say? That should be a curiosity. I should like one, and perhaps one of your smaller kinjals. And one of those horses. You said you had other goods as well? I should like to see what stock a merchant of your quality has."

Under the haggling between the merchants, and Nish's interjection, Iskander spoke quietly to Tagu.

"I suspected, but there's little to do about that at the moment. Let be gracious hosts - they have shared meat after all," he smiled.As whisper,"and, it is entirely possible Zuan here might succeed in trading them to death."

Nish Stryne simply 'harumphed' at Zuan's word, glowering at the priest. The Spellwriter withdrew and decided to go sit over with Saano. He plopped down next to the tattooed man and poked at the fire absently with a stick he found lying nearby. He was feeling a bit edgy and decided that he didn't like this new trader; although it was most likely due to paranoia about being caught out in his shady actions. Nish nudged Saano with his elbow and spoke softly, "Is it just me, are you sick of this Bulvan and his rug fetish?" Nish's eyes darted to the sky as he listened for imagined Moadi-bird cries... Just what do they sound like, anyway, he wondered.

"There are much worse things in the world than someone taking over-much enjoyment in woven artistry, Stryne. I am more than willing to ignore such quirks if they keep this camp from devolving into violence, and accept the trade as more than fair." Saanos voice was just as soft as Nishers, but contained a hint of warning. "Can you not see how tense those caravan guards are? Our own companions are likewise on alert. They recognize that something isn't right with this caravan. If we are not careful, we might wake with slit throats. Or worse."

Saano kept his hands busy finishing up the nightly maintenance of his bow. Soon the last of the meat would be cooked, and then they would begin taking watches for the night ahead. That would be when things would go down, if indeed his worries were justified. Assuming, of course, that nothing sparked the kindling before then.

‘Yes, yes, a horse” Bulvan waved the idea off as trivial, “Now the masks, you may have one in exchange but I do not think a jeweled-knife needs be thrown in.” Bulvan the cobra was out of his trance.

Again interrupted, but this time the negotiator had at least added an admonishment to his companion...

“Yes, lots have been through Canagadi recently, before the winter…” he trailed off, studying Nisher briefly but intently. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“My love…he wears a ward. This is why our minds have been clouded. Your’s more so than mine Saano. It is Selpando Bulvan, he-of-a-thousand-meaningless-names, and one true one. It is the Soul-Merchant, do you remember now? We heard of him in Zola-Garsa once, after the last war… it was said the poor of the city had lined up behind his wagon, eager for coin…queues a half-mile long. They lined up for him in Odelot too, until the authorities and a few of your brethren chased him out….. Do you remember, my love? He buys souls, he is not human.”

Now Bulvan gestured to one of his guards, and the man went to the back of the wagon, where moments ago Nisher had pilfered a sack. The man returned moments later with another sack and handed it to Bulvan.

Bulvan looked inside and removed what looked like a rectangular wooden case, in which one might find a musical instrument perhaps, and laid out the mahogany receptacle in front of Zuan, not too close to the fire. After a suitable dramatic pause, he opened the lid, and sat back smiling.

Inside, each placed on its own protruding pedestal, were four silken Masks from Zamorza, the first bone-white, the second the color of jasmine flowers, the third brick-red, and the fourth, jet-black. The history of the Zamorzan masks was known to Zuan in passing. They were rumored to originally belong to Zamorza’s long-extinct assassin’s guild, but over the centuries have come to be owned and used by the celebrated troubadours and actors of Zamorza’s famed theatres. Others rumors claimed, that the masks were manufactured by a mythical tribe of mystics who wore the masks for nefarious purposes known only to them. When donned, Zuan knew, a Zamorzan Mask disappeared into the skin, and allowed its wearer to look exactly the same, yet become completely unrecognizable to those that know the individual. A mother would not recognize her son, though the mask was invisible and did not alter the wearer’s appearance an iota.

Bulvan sat back, stifled a yawn and waited for Zuan to examine the rare treasures. It was almost midnight now, and Bulvan’s men seemed ready to retire for the night. One remained vigilant by the wagons and tethered mounts, while the other four put up tents for them and their master.

“Are they to your liking?” Bulvan inquired, looking at Zuan. “One mask for the Rashuli carpet, a fair exchange, no? There are less than a hundred in existence. And I will give you one of my fine steeds for that nag to seal the transaction.” Bulvan exposed his smallish teeth--a smile.

Somewhere in the wastelands, red-wolves howled once more with delight.

Ah, how I have come to love that sense of accomplishment and victory that I get when I pull the wool over the eyes of a clever player character. What DM Triumphs have you had?

Some of mine:1. Finally killing an incredibly powerful, lucky, annoying player's character.2. Finally achieving a TPK (Total Party Kill)3. Finally achieving a TPK using only traps4. Finally working out how to make it so that d**n wizard doesn't steal the spotlight all the d**n time.

Zuan produced a sigh. "Ah, no chance on the daggers, then?" he said with a hurt tone. He hadn't really expected to get away with all he asked - the kinjal would have surely tipped the scales on any trade - but he found it odd that Bulvan so quickly succumbed to an offer. One of his own order would have negotiated for hours. But then, some merchants had less a taste for dickering than he did. Their loss.

"No matter. Your offer is agreeable. Now," he waved a hand over the masks, "what can you tell me of these? I know Zamorza masks, but I am curious of their provenance."

"I had noticed they were a bit off, yes," the spellwriter agreed, nodding subtlely at Saano, "I'm not sure if you noticed earlier, but Tagu seemed about ready to pounce on one of the guard. I think Iskander and he must know some of them. The whole night smells off to me." Nish snapped back to attention as Bulvan spoke to him and he resumed his mask of simple, un-learned Nisher Stryne. After peering at the trader for some time he answered shortly, "Oh, I wouldn't want to interrupt you any further," A quick glance was directed at Zuan and Nish uttered something beneath his breath about 'stuffy trade-priests', "A bunch of spellwriters owe me money, y'see. i'm trying to hunt the bastards down, and I heard they were making for Canagadi!" The shrewd spellwriter picked his teeth at an imagined piece of antelope and peered at Bulvan inquisitively.

Bulvan's teeth shone once more at the comment. "Greed is good" he mumbled ever-so-queitly to himself.

"Now, trade-priest, you have already beguiled me into a fine carpet, and in return, I offered you an artefact from wicked, mysterious Zamorza!" He let these words linger on the night-air a few seconds, wiping some saliva with from the corner of his lip with a gloved finger, "But for me to add a be-jeweled kinjal that once belonged to an Arcane Shafe-Shifter mystic, ha, that would be foolish of Bulvan!" Bulvan took a breath. "Is it not enough that I trade you a good horse for a bad in good-will?"

another interruption...the rat-faced one again...

"Spellwriters, you say? I have heard of the same group you seek in fact, but only rumors passed on the road. A group of--them--arrived in mass in Canagadi some time back, and searched the country entire, for something or other. Having no doubt failed in their treasure-hunt, they were last heard to--"

"Wait", Bulvan stopped himself, "Surely this information is worth something to you" he said to Stryne and smiled his smile of many, tiny,squarish teeth.

ah yes the trade-priest awaits

"Provenance, mmm. If I remember the expression correctly, it was curiosity that slew some--creature or other. A strange thing to ask for...provenance. But if you must know Zuan Coursi, I purchased these masks from Ar-Galatho Pendaves Alfarafel, the Master himself, Zamorza's finest and most beloved stage-actor." Bulvan paused to see if Zuan knew the name and too see if the trade-priest was suitably impressed. "The masks were part of a larger--transaction--that I sealed with the man."

Ah, how I have come to love that sense of accomplishment and victory that I get when I pull the wool over the eyes of a clever player character. What DM Triumphs have you had?

Some of mine:1. Finally killing an incredibly powerful, lucky, annoying player's character.2. Finally achieving a TPK (Total Party Kill)3. Finally achieving a TPK using only traps4. Finally working out how to make it so that d**n wizard doesn't steal the spotlight all the d**n time.

"Worth someth...!?" Nisher spluttered before stopping himself, "Bah, if you do not know anything, trader, just say so! I will not give you coin to concoct a fable about some random direction they went while you scurry off to the winds, never to be seen again!" The spellwriter waved a dismissive hand then crossed his arms sullenly, staring at the fire. Evidently, Nish wasn't too worried about offending the trader, nor ruining any further negotiations Zuan had in mind. Nish did speak again, seemingly to himself, softly, though not so softly that none could hear it. "Taking the word of a stranger in the night? Does he think me mad!?"

Ah, how I have come to love that sense of accomplishment and victory that I get when I pull the wool over the eyes of a clever player character. What DM Triumphs have you had?

Some of mine:1. Finally killing an incredibly powerful, lucky, annoying player's character.2. Finally achieving a TPK (Total Party Kill)3. Finally achieving a TPK using only traps4. Finally working out how to make it so that d**n wizard doesn't steal the spotlight all the d**n time.

The Spellwriter peered at Bulvan searchingly in silence for a second, then let his arms uncross, sighing faintly; his bluff failed. "Then for the information I offer five coin and no more; you cannot expect a high ransom for your word alone." His offer sounds set in stone, Nisher's eyes narrow slightly at the trader, as if daring him to ask for a higher price.

Zuan looked over the masks in the firelight. "You think provenance strange?" he asked with a distracted glance. "It is not unheard of. The princes in the north seem to care only for the legends of their art. They care not what a thing looks like, so long as some long-dead king once pinned it to his wall."

While Bulvan was distracted with the spellwriter, he tried to gage the value of it in his head. He knew the name of Alfarafel, but whether that mattered much to the value of the masks was questionable at best.

Two scaled-birds were tossing the talisman to and fro, playing a game. Barely a dozen feet away, Inan Who-came-from-south-of-Kezan's-White-Tooth, sat motionless, beads of perspiration running down his body and tickling him to the point of agony....almost.

Two other birds were currently pecking at his defenseless face with hellish four-part beaks. One tore an earlobe from his ear and gobbled it down.

Inan smiled inwardly, though he was completely paralyzed and unable to actually stretch his lips to form a physical smile.

Two other birds were chewing flesh from his calf.

The pain was excruciating...almost. Inan had forced himself into the rare meditative state of Acha-Rongg, despite his paralysis, taught him by a master, and the pain was forced from his conscious state. It pleased Inan that the scaled birds were unaware that he felt no pain. That gave him time, since they seemed to relish the fact that his death was going to be a slow and painful one.

Ah, how I have come to love that sense of accomplishment and victory that I get when I pull the wool over the eyes of a clever player character. What DM Triumphs have you had?

Some of mine:1. Finally killing an incredibly powerful, lucky, annoying player's character.2. Finally achieving a TPK (Total Party Kill)3. Finally achieving a TPK using only traps4. Finally working out how to make it so that d**n wizard doesn't steal the spotlight all the d**n time.

Anna gazed once more from behind her hiding place, a mere boulder, on an otherwise shrubby and flat terrain. A hundred feet away was a small cave opening, inside of a massive natural chimney of soft reddish stone.

Somewhere inside that cave was Inan, the last of the dervishes who was still alive. At least for now. And of course that was the only Dervish Anna liked. She had many conversations with the mysterious shafe-shifter and in return for tales of the Nephilim, he had agreed to "initiate" her in the ways of the mystic. Anna liked magic.

Anna had followed a small band of mystics from Canagadi south to the “civilized” cities. They seemed exotic enough a distraction at the time, and she had to leave Zamorza anyway, after the duel for her affections ended badly between the two mercenary captains involved. Worse, she had felt something in the evening breezes of that decadent city of late, something off. She was worried that she might be found…

It was always time to move on.

Traveling with the dervishes proved tedious however. They had little interest in her “talents”, and were likewise hesitant to teach her any of their mystical secrets. The dervishes had no preconceptions or prejudices against her however, though her nature was known to them instinctively. Nor did they lust after her. On the contrary, they mostly ignored her. It mattered little to Anna, she was merely heading toward the next city and her next “adventure”, and this was preferable to traveling alone.

A flock of reptilian birds, barely larger than ravens, but not of this world, had attacked their humble caravan. The dervishes preferred traveling across the wilderness to the established roads between city-states, and they had paid dearly for their nature-loving ways.

The savage creatures literally tore into the mystics, shredding flesh with razor beaks, and freezing minds with some sort of hive hypnosis. No one escaped the Moadi-Birds except her.

Perhaps the hellish avians only liked to feed on and torture humans, she considered. Regardless, she ran and hid when the swarm came, and watched in horror, as the last of the dervishes was ripped to pieces, before one chosen meal, Inan, was instead lead telepathically to the birds lair.

Now she sat here as night descended upon the lands and jackals began howling. A mile or so away in the other direction, Anna spotted some lights now. Flickering but steady. Campfires? Someone else was camping beneath the stars it seemed.

Ah, how I have come to love that sense of accomplishment and victory that I get when I pull the wool over the eyes of a clever player character. What DM Triumphs have you had?

Some of mine:1. Finally killing an incredibly powerful, lucky, annoying player's character.2. Finally achieving a TPK (Total Party Kill)3. Finally achieving a TPK using only traps4. Finally working out how to make it so that d**n wizard doesn't steal the spotlight all the d**n time.

The tattooed Guardian very carefully kept his true annoyance from slipping into his features. It wouldn't do to tip the foul creature selling masks that his own had slipped a bit too far and revealed who he actually was.

Zola-Garsa, of course! I can't believe that slaughterhouse didn't immediately come to mind when I heard his name. I don't think I've heard of any more massacres following a Soul-Merchant since then. I guess he's become more cautious after we took an interest in him. That's a pretty good ward, considering we were all specifically told to keep an eye out for him.

I know. The way he spoke of essences is what cracked the spell and let me remember.

A demon beaten by his own words...Now that's something you don't see every day. Unfortunately...

Yes. He almost certain to try buying someone's soul tonight. And if he realizes who you are...

He's likely to still have a grudge. I was only half-worried about waking with a knife at my throat when talking to Nisher. It appears my thoughts were more true than I realized. Well, at least we know. Watch my back?

As much as I can, love.

Saanos complete attention returned to the conversation between Nisher and Bulvan at precisely the moment Bulvans words showed his nature once again. "...as you say, particularly with strangers, everything is for sale. No?" Keeping a straight face and not glaring was perhaps the hardest thing Saano had done that evening. In the interest of keeping his hands busy and hiding his face, he selected a piece of barely-done deer and began partaking thereof.

Go ahead and keep dropping hints, you loathsome parasite. See how long it takes before I put an arrow in your back.

Iskander forced himself to relax despite the tension he found rising. He was a tired pilgrim, not a threat. A pilgrim mentally charting the path his tulwar would take should the worse happen.

The merchant seemed rather interesting in the trade, more so then Iskander would have thought for a mere distraction. The bodyguards indeed seemed to be preparing for threats from outside the camp, and not a slaughter within. Perhaps there was nothing there, but something was setting Iskander's nerves alight.

She had dreamed that last night in Zamorza... dreamed of a thing wearing her as a glove, holding her close to an abominable compound visage made of a thousand depraved faces, a fly's eye made of every possible negative emotion."Thanks, I will pass."

Looking back, the vision was not half as horrid as seeing the dervishes taken apart by those repulsive pests. 'Scare-crows' she heard someone call them, and what a fitting name it was. Certainly, she was scared well and proper.

"Good riddance" she thought. Her skin was safe, the birds sated and none in pursuit, and she owed the dervishes nothing. No gain, but no pain, an acceptable equation, given the circumstances.She strode towards the campfire; it might be a dwelling, and she could get stew for a tale and song, or a caravan, and hitch a ride. A far better equation right ahead.Why did she feel restless, glancing behind?It was not fear, for she'd spent all her fear as the flock descended.That nagging stream of 'what if' and 'how' and 'perhaps'...

Curiosity.

The dervishes were full of rare, delicious secrets, and Inan had almost cracked the eve before, seeming amenable to the thought of teaching her a trick or two. Learning always filled her with pure unadulterated bliss, and having this opportunity slip away was akin to the proverbial carrot, dangling just out of reach on a string of fate.

***

The night rested upon the land, tired from incessantly being chased by the day, as Anna made her way towards the fires. Voices of haggle, of banter, of argument filled her ears - t'was not one caravan but two!With a lost "hello?" akin to that of a stray cat she called, then announced herself louder, naively calling: "Is anyone there? Please help!"Eyed by the guards and the travelers, she stumbled into the light of the fires, out of breath, theatrically falling on her knees and hands, then looking up at the seated men, parting the raven tresses with one dusty hand."Good sirs, effendi, gentiles, my master's caravan was attacked, not far, a mile! I alone escaped, but others may live! Please help, he will not be ungracious!"

Logged

"Captain, the buttocks are moving from the pink into the red and purple spectrum! We cannot maintain this rate of spanking any longer!"

"Good sirs, effendi, gentiles, my master's caravan was attacked, not far, a mile! I alone escaped, but others may live! Please help, he will not be ungracious!"

"Oh dear, what's this?" Bulvan sputtered, sticking his meaty head from out his tent...

A half-hour had passed since the transaction of Rashuli Carpet for Zamorzan mask and nag for mare was completed.

Most had retired (or at least bedded down) for the night. Before crawling into his tent, Bulvan assured Nisher he truly knew little else of the spellwriters disappearance, and told him to keep his coin. The last place the spellwriters were seen or heard from, Bulvan added, was some giant stone keep of holy women,"very distasteful" he added scrunching his fleshy nose.

Ah, how I have come to love that sense of accomplishment and victory that I get when I pull the wool over the eyes of a clever player character. What DM Triumphs have you had?

Some of mine:1. Finally killing an incredibly powerful, lucky, annoying player's character.2. Finally achieving a TPK (Total Party Kill)3. Finally achieving a TPK using only traps4. Finally working out how to make it so that d**n wizard doesn't steal the spotlight all the d**n time.

Nisher stryne had not taken long to fall asleep. He was dreaming of Moadi-birds and snoring - loudly - when the newcomer stumbled into the camp and fell to her knees. With a snort, the spellwriter was awakened by the commotion and rolled over to stand up groggily. He said nothing while Iskander and the woman interacted, his eyes not on the girl, but rather peering to the sky, distractedly. The air tingled tonight... As though filled with electricity, though perhaps it was only in Nish's head. Nevertheless, he had not felt this way for some time.

After several moments, he snapped back to attention and turned to face the woman, speaking distractedly, "So you left the road to avoid the bandits, hm? And you ran into some? You did say it was bandits that ambushed you, yes? How many?" Nishers reaction to the situation was odd; he paid no mind to the allure of treasure and had yet to indicate a reluctance to help. The greasy spellwrite scratched at his face absently and then pulled his arcane tome from beneath his cloak, flipping through the pages from one spell to another, before he tentatively paused, then turned the page once more - to a blank page. Nisher Stryne smiled faintly at something unseen and snapped the book shut. Something greater than greed was calling to him this night, and he was eager to heed the call.

Acha Rongg, the devil's stare, Inan felt his conscious mind slip away from his body, away from the fleshly concerns of being slowly and sadistically devoured by the flock of Moadi birds. His talisman was not far away, but so beyond his ability to reach that it might as well have been on the other side of the Endless Desert. He knew that if this persisted long enough he would perish, or at least his flesh and bone body would. Then he would discover if the training imparted to him by his long absent master Kumyr was truth or trickery. The first step of Acha Rongg was stepping out of the mind, excusing oneself from the constant fleshly desires of hunger, pain, arousal, and greed. The next step was to leave the body as a spirit wanderer, like the ghosts of the dunes, or the flickerlings that darted up from the desert canyons that never saw sun and only saw rain once in a century. The last, or the first great step was to leave the physical body entirely and become ephemeral, spirit stuff as the djinn were.

... they wouldn't cut a panicked girl some slack? 'Oh well' she sighed internally, 'the bad news is, they have some brains. Alas, the good news is, they have some brains.'

She stood up, and approached Iskander, grasped the straps of his armor for support, looking at him intensely.

"Drawn by the sight of a shiny ringthere descended, death on the wingdrawn by the scent of a vibrant soulflesh and meat scented, a most foul fowl!Frozen men stood stillRavens eating their willwith beaks sharp as nails that the Carpenter kill..."

She sighed."Before you help, you must know - it was the Scare-crows, the Moadi, the Ravens of Murder."She bowed her head."You must judge for yourself whether you are strong and brave enough to help."

Logged

"Captain, the buttocks are moving from the pink into the red and purple spectrum! We cannot maintain this rate of spanking any longer!"

Nisher Stryne stood, silent, mesmerised by the prose which Anquetiti ominously uttered to Iskander. About halfway through the recital, the spellwriter realized what was being discribed, and a dread chill ran down his back. "Not bandits after all..." the man muttered - the words described the beastly Moadi-birds which Nish had been weaving fables about not more than a couple of hours prior. The spellwriter unconsciously ran a finger along the edge of his arcane tome in a nervous gesture.Without bothering to watch Iskander's reaction to the words, Nish peered around the campsite, "Saano! Zuan! Come now, ye faithful warriors of virtue! Evil awaits in the night!" His voice dripped with cynicism, but nonetheless a wide, near-manic grin was spread upon Nish's face, and he turned to Bulvan, "You! How about sparing a couple of your guard to help us out here? Surely you don't need all five to guard your rump?"

Truly, it was as though Nisher Stryne was touched with the fever or something as odd - in the four days travel with the party, this was the first time he not only didn't grumble at doing work, but was actively encouraging the group to engage in a potentially fatal activity with him! "Surely there's no time to waste! Lead us the way, mystery-woman!" Nish made a quick, subconscious check; making sure his essentials were on him still; his dagger, his tome, his sacrificial vellum hanging nonchalantly from his belt. Other odds and ends - and importantly, his travelling quill and ink-set. Without allowing anyone time for hesitation, he began striding in the direction he best guessed Anquetiti came from, "This way, yes? Come now; you can tell us more details on the way; and your name, girl!"

Within Nisher Stryne's twisted mind, runic incantations and eldrich etchings teased him; a taste of magic was in the air and Nish rubbed his teeth absently - they itched! A smile was growing wider still on his face and for once he seemed happy; he was touched by the draw of inspiration.

Those travelling near Nisher Stryne will hear him muttering words over and over under his breath - some unintelligable, but others recognisable as a child's song; "Moadi-bird, Moadi-bird, You must seek not the Moadi-bird. Screams be heard, screams be heard, if you seek the Moadi-bird! Wings of Steel, Wings of steel, hear the scare-crow's wilting peal; beaks will gore, beaks will gore, spear you till you bleed no more..."